


Quartz

by lightningwaltz



Category: The Montmaray Journals - Michelle Cooper
Genre: Backstory, Emotional Baggage, Friendship, M/M, Mid-Canon, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningwaltz/pseuds/lightningwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby and Simon fail to talk about many things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quartz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Citagazze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citagazze/gifts).



> My lovely yuletide recipient, Citagazze, asked for a fic that would shed light on some of the details of Toby and Simon's backstory. Like you, I'm also pretty fascinated by the complexities of this relationship. This one is from Toby's POV. This is mostly he's been my favorite ever since I read the passage that describes him as a smiling doll that can be knocked down, but will bounce back up again. And it will still be smiling. 
> 
> I really like most of the relationships in this series are very messy but also very human, and it was a joy to explore this particular relationship for a while. I hope it's okay that it's set during canon, and not before it; Toby does reflect on the past a great deal. And I hope you you have a wonderful holiday season.

“Some letters have arrived from Montmaray.” 

As a rule, Toby didn’t realize he’d been taking a nap until woken up from them. Today Simon was lucky enough to be his alarm bell. The first thing Toby noticed was that his posture was, really, quite admirable, especially for someone who was hunched over desks so much of the time. It wasn’t really something worth complimenting anyone on, though. 

As usual, correspondence from Montmaray always looked a bit nondescript. Toby spent so much time looking for them, that when they failed to be crumpled and coated with seal salt , they never really meshed with the expected ambiance.

He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, dispelling the sandy taste of disrupted sleep. “That’s a lot of them! Am I really that popular?” 

Simon’s smile was downright anemic. “Some of them are for me.” 

Toby held out his hand for the envelopes. “You can stick around here and read yours,” he offered to Simon. “Veronica and Sophia will have written in code, and I'm happiest doing schoolwork around other people. The same is probably true for translating.” 

“You just like having people around to distract you.” 

It was more than a little on the mark, and it was always a bit exciting when people failed to humor him. Toby liked most people he met, and he thought of his own charm as a cheap commodity. The fact that Simon made him work a little harder than anyone else was maddeningly interesting. 

"I'll be very industrious. Just watch me."

"Fine." Simon helped himself to one of Toby's chairs, and Toby relocated to the desk.

Henry’s spelling skills made him feel like a neglectful relative (he was, but that was beside the point), and Veronica’s letters were just really _long._ So he started with Sophia’s letter. She wrote his full name on the envelope, in her tidy and bunched up handwriting. His desk edged up against the wall, and he could stare out the window. Milford’s landscape was often cozy, but today there was an abundance of clouds in the sky. Dramatic people might have described it as foreboding, but, for Toby, it mostly imparted a sense of urgency. They blotted out the sun, and washed away shadows. It lent a sense of gray impermanence to the world, like everything might drift up, float away, leaving very little proof that they had really been here.

Rebecca tended to write long letters. Nevertheless after Simon finished reading, he still did not leave. The two of them volleyed small talk back and forth. Inconsequential observations that were as comfortable as a warm blanket. 

Decoding Kernetin always had been rather soothing work, though. Toby would set up the two papers side-by-side. The one replete with writing, full of uncharted potential. The other empty, waiting for him to fill it up. It forced him to take his time, to chew over word after word. It made him stop and contemplate language and how people used it. And, as he worked, his sister’s personality took shape, and bloomed over a blank piece of paper. It was a bit like being one of those archaeologists, who always seemed to be out in the desert. Sieving through seas of sand, until the shape of things emerged from an unknown morass. He and Henry had done that, once. Veronica had made the mistake of telling her about King Gilbert. He had only been monarch for a week, but as a prince he had married well, accumulated a fortune, and then supposedly buried it somewhere on the island to hide it from his scheming relative Something-Or-Other. And then he died before having the courtesy to draw up a map. (“It's just a legend, you know, and not a very good one!” That was Veronica’s ruling on the matter.) Henry, of course, had become determined to find it. The two of them had spent the better part of the day sifting through sand and dirt in various locations on the island. At best they had found tiny bits of quartz, but Henry had seemed satisfied. The attempt to find the treasure was probably much more satisfying to her than if she had easily uncovered a pile of diamonds.

“How is Sophia’s letter?” With Simon, unspoken questions always lurked below the spoken ones. Usually, several themes and variations on _is there some sort of situation I need to handle before it blows up out of proportion?_ And further still _if I was in charge, this situation never would have happened._ He was usually right about both things. 

“She seems pretty much the same.” Inquisitive, observant, compassionate. Prone to beating herself up for minor sins. It was something wound up in her nature, and had been since they were young. There was little to be done to talk someone out of the shape of one's soul, but it was something he kept an eye on all the same. Not like he could change anything. “Well, there is one new thing. She also seems to have fallen passionately in love with adjectives.” 

“It could be worse, I guess.” 

Toby set down the pen, and shifted his position in the chair. He faced the back, both legs draped down the sides. Aunt Charlotte would probably describe this posture as ungainly, but it was pretty comfortable. 

“You’re around Soph a lot more than I am, though.” He looked up at Simon, very taken with the austere angles of his face. He probably looked the part of ‘heir apparent to the throne of a starkly beautiful but poor island nation’ much more than Toby. “How does she seem to you?” 

“Do you want the truth?” Simon asked, after a slightly pause.

Toby just laughed. “Well, that would be the ideal. But if you feel like lying today, try to make up something interesting.” 

“Looks like you’re feeling cheeky today.” 

“Simon, Simon, Simon.” Toby tapped the pen against his lips. "People tend to say 'do you really want to know?' when they actually want to drive you crazy with curiosity. I know you can be more subtle than that and I refuse to play along." 

“Alright then. An-y-way.” Simon drew out each syllable like it was a different sentence. It made Toby want to see him haranguing others in parliament. “Sophia seems a little … lost, to me.” 

For some reason, this rattled out one of Toby’s first real memories of Sophia. They’d spent a day looking for seashells, and she’d become very upset that they were all brown, and unattractively mottled. When she realized she’d couldn’t even hear the ocean in them, Sophia had let them fall onto the sand with a wet _thud_ and then started crying about how she never saw mermaids either. Toby had teased her, saying that mermaids tended to be bloodthirsty troublemakers and that she was probably lucky that she had never encountered one. Sophia had cried even harder after that, but then she stopped when he reminded her that she could hear the ocean _right there_.

“Montmaray’s too small to get lost in,” Toby said.

“You’ve never been in the crypts.”

“Actually yes, I have.” 

"What? When?"

No doubt Simon was imagining all the things that could have gone wrong. 

"Never mind that. Please gossip about my poor sister."

“I guess a better word for her right now would be… broody?” Simon made the same face he did whenever he misspelled a word, and had to blot it out. 

“So my sister is a hero in a gothic novel.” Toby thought that their home might be conducive to that sort of thing from the outside, but the chickens and such detracted from the romantic visual.

“I don’t entirely know how to describe it,” Simon confessed. “She doesn’t seem ill, or even depressed. But she does seem to be struggling to find a direction in life.” 

“She’s just sixteen,” Toby said, and his Aunt’s outburst came to mind. _Princess Sophia is sixteen already? Why was I not informed?_ “She’s probably much more respectable than I ever was at her age. Not that that would be difficult.” 

“She spends most of her time with Veronica- don’t smirk at me, this isn’t about our arguments- and that can’t be easy.” 

“How so?” Toby tried to recall a time when Veronica had mistreated Sophie, and he came up empty.

“I think Veronica came out of the womb knowing her place in life. For us mere mortals, it’s not so easy. And, anyway, as long as Montmaray continues to stay out of _all_ world politics, there’s not much scope for aspirations on that island, either.” His voice didn’t rise, exactly, but something out it caught Toby’s attention. It was deeper, more throaty. 

It occurred to Toby that Sophia was an easy base for the grafting of one’s personal fictions. She wasn’t shy or fragile, exactly, but she had that unique air of sweet-natured aloofness. It was easy to imagine all types of fears and strengths lurking behind that mask. But it would say more about the one doing the fantasizing than it ever would about Soph. And anyway, Simon was one to talk about all-encompassing aspirations. Toby wondered what it would be like to have that kind of certainty, and to know that it might end up wasted.

“I wouldn’t say we avoid all diplomatic relations.” That last phrase sounded clunky and orthodox in Toby’s mouth. “We have friendly relationship with the Basque.” 

“The captain does things like bring us oranges.” 

“And we all can avoid scurvy because of it.” He looked at Simon, and willed him to at least sit on the edge of the bed. “But, like I said, Sophia is young.” 

”If she does want to get married, political obscurity might block her from good prospects. And do we really want her marrying someone who just likes the sound of her title?” Simon sighed. “It’s a small problem now, if it even _is_ a problem. I’m just saying you might want to pay attention. Things like this can snowball into something much worse.” 

“You mean like how I am?” 

“Remember that you said it, and not me.” 

In anyone else it might be cutting. With Simon, though, all true feelings- cruelties and kindnesses- remained under lock and key. And he was very good at making his personal opinions sound like the absolute truth.

“If what you say is true, I can’t blame Soph. There’s probably something a bit suffocating about being able to walk the perimeter of one’s country in less than an hour.” When Toby actually contemplated the future, he saw nothing in particular. Montmaray, as an institution, was dying off, and the people there did all their jobs better than he ever could. In Britain he existed in an unusual liminal state. Royalty to half the people he met, pretentious upstart to a good number of others. The world would grind on with or without him, like cogs in those big factories in London and New York. For the most part, surprises were nasty sudden things that led to a great deal of blood and guts and festering inter-generational resentment. 

Toby stood up and made his way to the bed. He fell backwards onto it, his arms spread out like he wanted to make snow angels. If Simon didn’t want to be down here with him then then, oh well.

“Very graceful, your highness.” 

That caught Toby’s attention. Simon was sparing with the royal titles. He often used it with Veronica because she treated him like a sparring partner. It rarely came up in his discussions with Sophia, and it never came up with Henry. 

With Toby, the title had become an (infrequent) term of endearment. Ironic and heartfelt all at once. After all, Toby was Simon’s prince, and Toby relied on Simon for many things. In a world where social rank kept people in place, like statues, it had to be a galvanizing thing. 

Annoyingly, Simon had taken up Toby’s place in the chair. He looked over at the translated letter, blanched, and then turned the pages face down. For a moment the years fled from his face, and Toby remembered that Simon really was a young man. The world hadn’t always been kind to him, but it could be unkind to many, many people. 

“It’s not that confidential. I told Sophia to hope really hard that I got to come home, and she told me that she would.” 

Simon leaned into the arms of his chairs. “Did you want to go home?” His lips were tight at the corners, but his eyes were soft. It was a strange combination, and Toby could not look away.

“Ah, well…” He knew what was expected. Needed, even. An outpouring of homesickness, or fond recollections of Christmases past. He could almost taste the pudding and cider on his tongue. His cheeks burned, like they did after a night in the chilly air in the carols. It was the normal thing to admit to missing such things but, somehow, he could not allow himself to do it. He watched the usual slow shift in Simon’s face. Hope, disappointment, resignation. It stung, and it also made Toby dig his feet in, like the roots of an ancient, gnarled tree. He was so twisted with unexamined things, so set in his ways that he was turning into stone. Maybe they both were. Maybe someone should chuck them both into the crypts.

“I thought you were practical, Simon. Even if we left right away we’d still arrive after Christmas.” Toby closed his eyes. “I’ll translate Veronica’s novel later. I was in the bed when you got up here, and I plan to return to what I was going.” 

“The sun hasn’t even set, yet.” 

Toby sat up, and held out his hand. Brushed his fingers against Simon’s. “Well if you join me then I can think of some things that will keep me from lazing about.” 

That made Simon bark with laughter. “So that’s how it is, huh? If I kiss you that will keep you from idleness?” 

At last he took his place on the bed. They sat side-by-side. The first time this had happened, it had also been after quite a long time away from his immediate family. Simon had always been attractive, but during their reunion he’d also been so startlingly familiar. That familiarity was only intensified now that Toby knew what it felt like to hold Simon, how to kiss him properly, how to impart so much pleasure that even Simon's capable mind short-circuited for a dense cluster of seconds.

He pressed his lips to Simon’s. He was slow about it, almost lackadaisical. He liked pulling back from Simon, to examine his face in the instant right after being kissed. If Toby expected sentimentality or, god forbid, romance, then he was bound to be disappointed. The normal outcome was interesting in its own way. Simon’s mask tended to flake away, ever so slightly, and Toby could see the cauldron of emotion below. All the whirring, cacophonous questions. 

_The prince of Montmaray is attracted to me and I don’t mind in the slightest. What can I do with this, what can I get from this, will this ever be a problem?_

And then, as was his wont, Toby closed his eyes, and imparted a much stronger kiss. Because he also wanted to see what Simon was capable of doing. He wanted to see what Simon would make out of all the lackluster opportunities life had sent his way. Simon was the master of conjuring gold from lead, diamonds from quartz, substance from absence. Toby, in many ways, was already at the top of the world. An obscure prince was a happy prince. There was no way to go unless he literally glided away, and took to the skies. Simon, though... he was was worth watching. He always had been Toby wanted to know how much further Simon could go with such insubstantial tools. 

But first he wanted to push him down into the sheets, hold him close, feel Montmaray in the space between their bodies. 

*

After they were through, Toby reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a bottle of whisky. He drank straight from the bottle, and it warmed up his throat. 

“You’d better not be caught with that,” Simon admonished. He was never tired after sex, and not for lack of trying on Toby’s part. 

_You’d better not be caught_ could apply to a lot of things. The hidden liquor, all the boys he’d kissed, everything he refused to say. 

“Trust me I’m very lucky about that.” He paused, strangely reflective. “Very careful about it too.” 

“I know.” Simon patted Toby on the hip, and it was almost tender. Almost. “Happy almost Christmas, by the way.” 

Toby held the glass out to Simon in a salute. “Cheers.”


End file.
